


Our Long Shadows

by Quillfiend



Series: Synheart [2]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, F/M, Magic, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-25 15:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillfiend/pseuds/Quillfiend
Summary: Years after her Valoran adventures, Syndra works as the right hand of the master of shadows himself, Zed. Now pursuing a set of scrolls holding forbidden knowledge, Zed hires a new ally to help them infiltrate the ancient Danbou monastery: a warlock from a bygone era nicknamed the Hand of Desecration. Syndra, still suffering from nightmares and haunted by her harrowing past, cares little for this deal - at least until she discovers the sorcerer to be familiar...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a loose continuation of Witchcraft, another story I wrote and posted here on AO3. You can read this one without having read Witchcraft but you might have trouble understanding some references or connections between the characters.

_We live as the victims of fate. Bang, bang. You're dead before you're born, and it hurts you, it gives you a soul made of flesh and makes it bleed. You feel your chest get tight every morning, and it's hard to get up when you're so broken. You don't know why you woke up. You don't know why you were born. It hurts, it hurts, makes it bleed. It's a dull kind of pain, and no herbal tea, man or woman makes it go away. They tell you that you have to, that you have to deal with it, conquer it, but you hurt, you hurt, you bleed. You mourn your birth and you live as the victim of fate._

Syndra winced, gasping for air. Her wheezing woke the man next to her; Zed turned his head to look at her, less alarmed than he usually was. He was growing numb to her nightmare tantrums, and the witch could've sworn he was a little angry with her. Because she made noise, made him think there was danger where there was none. Not for him, anyway.

„I had the dream again,“ Syndra whispered, „they keep coming back. Like ghosts.“

„Ignore them,“ the assassin growled and turned away from her, clearly not eager to discuss this in the middle of the night. Syndra reached out to him, touched his naked shoulder; her fingers glided across his scarred skin, but she found no comfort in it. No - Zed was many things to her, but not a kindred spirit, not somebody who'd understand. He had a country to save, an order to lead and he had no patience or time for the worries of an ancient sorceress.

Syndra shuffled towards the edge of their bed and let her legs hang off it. She grabbed her nightgown, wrapped herself in it and walked out into the night, to stand at the wooden balcony adjacent to their room. The Placidium was glowing in the distance like a marvelous garden of stars, casting glimmering reflections onto the Navori river curving throughout the valley. Syndra lost herself in the sight, imagining herself to be one of the shimmering lights dancing upon the water surface, weightless and carefree.

_You mourn your birth and you live as the victim of fate._

A dull ache gripped Syndra's chest, a symptom of the deep melancholy that had been haunting her since her early childhood. She leaned against the bamboo rail and imagined the Placidium ablaze, its people suffering as she had. She had to remind herself that the stellar gardens were not the target of Zed's mad crusade; no, their destination lie in the opposite direction, at the Navori riverspring. A monastery stood there, an ancient archive of knowledge the master of shadows craved.

_It hurts, it hurts._

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, and Syndra looked over her shoulder. She didn't hear Zed coming, but she was glad that he did.

„You'll get to see it,“ he rested his chin on her shoulder when she leaned against him, „we'll meet the Hand of Desecration at the Xan terrace.“

She couldn't tell him that she wasn't imagining herself walking the gardens but setting them aflame. Zed loved his country far too much to tolerate her destructive tendecies. „Mhm. Tell me about the Hand - why do we need him?“

„He's some old yordle mage,“ Zed gently pecked her shoulder, „claims to have knowledge of the seals around Danbo. If he's not lying, it will make job significantly easier.“

„I knew a yordle mage.“ Syndra laughed. It felt bitter, cold. „Long ago.“

„Mhm?“

„He was my teacher. He died in my arms because of my mistake.“

Zed said nothing, staring off into the night. At least watching their mentors die was something they had in common, even if Zed hated his and Syndra loved hers.

„Go back to sleep,“ the witch said after a moment of silence, „I'll join you soon.“

He squeezed her waist one more time, then let go of her. Syndra leaned against the wooden rail and once again lost herself in the dancing lights. She had no intention of going back, not tonight.

 

The Placidium of the Navori was... Unique. Stepping into its gardens was like crossing over into another world, one made of lucid dreams and unbound magic. It was a place of hope, of better tomorrows, and while Syndra didn't feel her melancholy lifted by its charm, the aching in her chest relented a little.

It was calming. Better. It made her want to sleep, certain that there would be no nightmares this time.

Alas, the Hand of Desecration was waiting. Nobody recognized her and Zed so far, and Syndra didn't expect them to; they looked like two ordinary youngsters that came to the Placidium to see Xan Irelia and join her resistance, perhaps glean some knowledge about her blade arts.

„You've been here before,“ Syndra noted when they stepped up to one of the floating rock terraces. Zed nodded.

„It is the heart of Ionia. Many times have I come to meditate in these gardens, especially when I needed to remind myself than no sacrifice is too great to save the First Lands.“

„So this is what you fight for - gardens and magical rocks? Because there's a lot of rot beneath all this, a web of lies and worse. I've felt all of it.“

„We'll fix it.“ He pushed a strand of ivory hair away from her eyes. „It's a sickness that must be healed, just like the Noxian invasion was. We cured that one.“

She snorted derisively. „Are you going to find and kill every mother than doesn't love her child, every lying monk, every brother that thinks himself just in beating his sisters?“

„I will destroy the bastard seed that makes them so.“

„Then you will destroy humanity.“

They didn't speak after that, both far too stubborn in their ideologies and aware that the other cannot be changed, not through words and arguments. Syndra had no faith in the world, not after it took everything from her, then gave her a little hope only to take that away as well. She had none of Zed's faith or patriotism, but his violent methods and the chaos and fear he sowed pleased her. She wanted to see people suffer, and he needed a powerful ally. It was a good bargain... And that they shared one bed was just a bonus.

The Xan terrace was not simply a magical promenade or an enchanted garden, it was a memorial. Instead of little trees and cherry bushes swords rose from the ground, grieving blades of every warrior that fell defending the First Lands against Noxus. To walk the pathways between those nameless graves was a harrowing experience; no gentle breeze dared enter here and so the air stood still, moved only by distant whispers of those lost and forgotten. Syndra tried to pay those voices no mind, but then she saw a ghost.

Her mentor stood among the mournful blades of the steel forest, his solemn amber eyes set on a large jagged weapon, a general's gruesome cleaver. He was still like a statue, holding his staff in his left hand and the hem of his robe in his right; the scar running over his eye was still there, still in stark contrast with the rest of his dark, feline face.

„Veigar?“ Syndra called out to the apparition, but when he turned to her, she didn't know how to continue. She wanted to apologize, plead with him to return among the living, but she knew well that what was done could not be undone. And so they stood there in somber silence... Until Zed spoke.

„Ravens swallow the night,“ the assassin moved his fingers in a curious gesture; Syndra blinked. Did he see the phantom as well?

„Dawn breaks to the song of triumph,“ Veigar answered, returning the same gesture with his claws, „so you're the Master of Shadows.“

Zed nodded and stepped closer, and in that moment time stopped for Syndra. She did not believe. She _could not_ believe. She saw her teacher die. She sat by his deathbed for three days and three nights, hoping that he would awaken, but he did not. She _buried_ him. It could not have been him, not here, not now. _How?_

„This is Syndra,“ Zed stepped aside to introduce the witch, „a master of the dark arts, much like yourself. I trust you will have much to speak about.“

Syndra and Veigar exchanged a silent, uncertain stare. Her blood was boiling. She was confused, hurt, furious.

„I know,“ the warlock spoke first, and it was all that he said. Syndra stepped closer, raising her hand; her fingers hovered above his flicking ears, his inky fur. She felt his nervous breaths, took in his scent. He smelled of fire and burnt wood, as all dark mages did. It was comforting to her once, long ago. Now it only made her more angry, more bitter.

She turned on her heel and began walking away. Nobody called to her, only questions left unaswered.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Having the Navori gardens far ahead of her meant that Syndra could pretend it was all just a dream, that all that happened was left behind in the steel forest. She was sitting on the porch of the large valley inn she and Zed were staying at, playing with her dark globes and smoking a tarbloom stick. Music and laughter were echoing from the inside; the innkeep's son was celebrating his birthday. But Syndra was in no mood for parties.

Her eyes once again followed the sweeping meanders of the Navori river, seeking some comfort hidden within its lazy waves. But she did not feel calmer, not rested and not better; the stream only reminded her of terrible times past, of her prison and of Berwick.

She realized she dreaded water. It was a vexing thought, and she almost rose from her bench only to run through the valley and dive into the river to face her fears.

„It's a beautiful place,“ a familiar voice said, „you seem much more comfortable here.“

„I buried you,“ she answered, „I saw you die. So why are you here now?“

Veigar stood beside her, and it cost her all of her willpower to not look at him.

„I never did die. The True Ice only put me in a coma.“

„For how long?“

„Three days.“

She stared at him now, eyes ablaze with fury. „You could've followed me. You could've sent a message. _Anything._ But you didn't - you let me grieve, you let me feel miserable.“

„It was the _best_ option,“ he argued, voice heavy with sorrow, „we only brought terrible things to each other.“

„So that's it? I was no longer convenient for you?“

„What is or isn't convenient for me was never a factor!“ He threw his arms open. „I couldn't teach you anything, not _enough._ And I couldn't protect you, not from the world and not from myself.“

„I don't know if I should be more insulted by you just ditching me like a worthless package,“ she drew in another puff of tarbloom smoke, „or that you have no better apology than this vapid blathering about not being able to protect me. I never needed or wanted your protection.“

„So what do you want me to say?“ he snapped at her, „we're bloody witches, Syndra. Tragedy comes with the job. You should know that better than anybody.“

„And that's coming from somebody who supposedly does not believe in fate,“ she growled, „you wussed out, ran away like a wimpy mouse, and for what? Because you think you don't deserve anything good?“

„Because I think you deserve better.“

She flung one of her spheres at him. He was quick enough to deflect it with his own magic.

„I don't believe you,“ she breathed a circle of smoke, „you were selfish and messed up and now you're trying to make it sound like your intentions were good. Like you acted for the sake of some greater good. At least have the gut to admit that you did it for nobody but yourself.“

He sighed. „We never should've met.“

„Agreed.“

They remained in uneasy silence until they were joined by Zed. The assassin looked right ridiculous, with a necklace of cherry petals around his neck and a paper party hat atop his head. Unlike Veigar and Syndra, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

„We need to talk,“ he announced and took a sip from the wine goblet he was holding. He didn't ask why they were outside or what happened between them; he didn't care and he was wise enough to not get involved.

„Well, I'm listening,“ Syndra coughed.

„Not here. Come inside.“

Syndra put out her tarbloom stick and tossed it away, into the tall grass. She and Veigar then followed the shadow master inside the noisy inn. They climbed the wooden stairway up into the attic loft; the room was full of crates and old furtniture, and in its center stood an old table with a couple of maps and scrolls on it. Zed stepped towards it and leaned against the desk.

„Danbou monastery stands on a hill,“ he motioned towards an iron marker when Veigar pulled one of the boxes closer to the table and stood on it, „whoever standing on its wall is going to have a good view of the surrounding area. Approaching it unseen is going to be hard.“

„Do you need to?“ Veigar asked, „your correspodence made it seem like you had enough political power to enter it by other means.“

„I have some alternate plans, yes,“ Zed nodded, „but they're obviously more risky. We'd need to be extremely well coordinated to avoid running into the kinkou. Once somebody reveals my true identity, I'll be in extreme danger.“

„Hmm.“ Veigar scratched his fuzzy chin. „Precise communication will be difficult if the Danbou seals are what I think they are.“

„Hm?“

„I went through some records at the Zhyun dynasty archive in Raikkon,“ Veigar mused, „compared to the other Navori monasteries, Danbou is a relatively recent build. Its construction dates only a few centuries back.“

„Why do we care about this, though?“

„The architectonic trend during that time was extreme naturalism,“ Veigar's claws glided over the map, „Ionians always built around nature, but after the vastayan march from the Ghetu sea to Nistaram—„

„Less history, more relevant facts,“ Syndra interrupted him.

„Point is that the Danbou seal protecting the inner vault - which is presumably Zed's main objective - likely isn't within the temple itself,“ the warlock explained, „but rather at some natural magic spring in the vicinity.“

„Wait, wait,“ Zed frowned at the mage, „so you're saying that the spell protecting the vault isn't actually at the vault? How does that work?“

„Short answer: magic,“ Veigar sneered, „long answer: the core of the spell is at the vault, but it is drawing energy from a nearby source. To disable the spell, we must cut it off from the source.“

„But where _is_ that source?“ Syndra asked.

„That is something you'll have to tell me,“ Veigar turned to Zed, „I'm not a local.“

„And I'm not a mage.“

„You don't have to be.“ Veigar squinted at the map. „The source could be anything, from a spring rumored to have healing powers to an old vastayan shrine.“

„There's thousands of shrines all over Ionia.

Veigar flicked his ears. „Can you think of anything bigger, significant?“

Zed pondered the question for a moment, then pointed at an estuary not far from the western coast. „I know that the Maraya built a chain of moon shrines somewhere around this area in ages past. I'm not sure if any of them are still active, though.“

Veigar grimaced, shaking his head. His claws danced over a mountain ridge rising just behind Danbou. „That's too far. If anything, it would be around here. Or so I suspect.“

„I don't know about any magical place there,“ Zed folded his arms over his chest, „just the... Hm.“

„Yes?“

„There used to be a temple, but that's almost forgotten history now,“ Zed waved his hand, „I know there's some sort of tomb now, but that's about it. I'm not sure if it fits the bill.“

„If there's nothing else you can think of, it's our best bet.“ Veigar hunched over the table. „But it's your call.“

Zed his turned his back to the table, pacing around the dusty attic. Syndra glanced at Veigar; the warlock gave her a shy smile. The days spent buried six feet under took away none of his dark charm, but Syndra was too vexed to keep looking.

„I know there's a trail going up there,“ Zed finally spoke, „but I have no idea what state it's in or what could be inside the tomb.“

„How long a trip is it?“

„Well, purely distance-wise you'd be up in a day,“ the assassin hummed, „but if it's snowed in, then it's going to take much longer. Not sure how much of a help your magic would be.“

„You could give me a week to get to the tomb, open it and find the seal,“ Veigar said, „then on the morning of the seventh day you'd go to Danbou, get to the vault and take what you need.“

„This could work.“ Zed nodded at the witch. „Syndra?“

„What?“

„She can go with you,“ Veigar tented his little claws, „I can handle the journey alone.“

„She doesn't have my training or my subtlety,“ Zed waved his hand dismissively, „I understand that you two don't really want to work together, so Syndra can go... Wherever she wants, really.“

„I'll go with Veigar,“ Syndra growled, „I'm not going to just stand back.“

„Sure,“ Zed shrugged, „but I'd like to remind you that this is quite important so if there's any drama—„

„I'm not twelve,“ Syndra snapped at him, „don't insult me.“

„I'm certain it will be fine,“ Veigar pitched in, „more magic, more fun, right?“

Neither Syndra nor Zed appreciated his attempt at humour. They gave him a couple of apathetic stares and then left to ready themselves. Veigar sighed.

He had a very long week ahead of him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

„Don't you feel weird wearing fur?“

Veigar adjusted the collar of his winter robe, shuffling about in the snow. „What?“

The bitter wind whistling around them blew Syndra's cape into her face. The road up to the tomb was harsh, marked only by fluttering pieces of red cloth, and she was glad to have dressed warmly. „Well, you're... Furry.“

„Do you feel strange wearing leather because you have _skin?“_

„It's not human skin,“ Syndra huffed, wading through the snow. Veigar pushed a stone slab out of their way with his dark magic, waving his staff about.

„And my clothes aren't made of yordle fur. Same logic.“

„Bah.“

„Why,“ Veigar turned to face her with a sly smile, „are you imagining making me into a cozy coat?“

„Considering it.“

He swung his hand from left to right and hurled a spark of dark energy at her. She sidestepped it elegantly, answering his aggression with a triumphant smile. The bolt splattered against a rock wall behind her.

„Exquisite,“ Veigar nodded, „I see your reflexes are still—„

Something rumbled above them, and before they could raise their heads, a large pile of snow crashed down from the overhang they stood beneath and buried them both.

„...On point,“ the warlock finished his sentence when he dug his way out of the drift. Syndra started laughing and brushed the snow off of herself. Being less vertically challenged than her companion, she didn't have as much trouble _unsnowmanifying_ herself.

„I see my misery brings you happiness,“ he stepped closer, icy flakes shimmering in his black fur and in the lining of his robe, „it's good to see you smile.“

„Don't try this with me,“ Syndra turned her eyes back to the far peaks, „I don't forgive so easily.“

„I don't want your forgiveness.“

„Then what _do_ you want?“

They exchanged a cold stare, and Veigar opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by a call from somewhere ahead on the road they were walking up to the peak. Syndra squinted and saw a man in the distance, leading a heavily loaded yak.

„Greetings, pilgrims!“ he yelled, „traveling to the White Paw, eh?“

They waited for the man to reach them; Veigar nodded.

„We're going up to see the tomb if that's what you mean,“ he said as the hustler bowed to them, „can you tell us more about it?“

„Never seen it myself,“ the man adjusted his fur cap and tugged the yak's reins, „but the folks up at Osahara can tell you more.“

„Osahara?“

„A camp near White Paw,“ the trader explained, „terrible trip, but good deals - no other place you can get ice amanitas from. Do you happen to need any? I can give you a fair price.“

„No, no,“ Syndra growled, „how do we get to Osahara? Just follow this road?“

„That's right, lady. But be careful, the snow gets more icy and slippery higher up. Do you need some snowshoes? I've got some right here... For a fair price.“

„We can handle ourselves,“ Veigar grunted and passed around the eager trader, „be on your way.“

Syndra suppressed a smile at watching his little feet sink into the snowdrifts. She nodded to the trader and followed the warlock, thinking what it'd be like if she let him ride her shoulders. Uncomfortable, surely - and utterly adorable. Her mind returned to better times, to High Silvermere, to the bloody night during which she murdered Ada Dupont and had the warlock sit on her lap. He was warm, soft, tasted like ash and rust and sweet biscuits.

She had to mentally slap herself to stop reminiscing.

„I think I've got it figured out,“ Veigar said, stomping onto the soft heaps of white, „if you put a thin layer of magic energy beneath and around your feet, it will help you not get stuck in the snow. Spreads your weight better overall.“

„Pfah.“ Letting her magic fill every fiber of her body, Syndra slowly lifted off the ground and against the cold wind blowing from the mountain peak; once she got used to the elemental forces pushing against her and gained a semblance of balance, she lazily floated by Veigar, lying down in the air.

„Ah, someone's lucky,“ Veigar snorted, „to have a wind spirit ancestor. Or perhaps some Lhotlan vastayas.“

„Not that I know of,“ Syndra smiled and flipped onto her back, „besides, aren't all yordles spirits? Shouldn't you be able to do this as well?“

„Not so easily in this world,“ the warlock braved the snowed road again, settling in a leisurely pace, „the stone pulls us too heavily. I know one who still manages to some degree, but even she's more at home in her dreams than here.“

His amber eyes filled with great sorrow at those words, and Syndra realized that she recognized it - that longing sadness she saw in the mirror every morning. It was a glum symptom of having met somebody amazing, somebody hopeful, and realizing how far out of reach they were; that no matter the circumstances they were worth a better companion and nothing, not even making love to this muse, could change that.

They were a cursed kind, she and Veigar and all witchfolk that suffered for their powers.

„You're wise enough to find ways around it,“ Syndra noted, emerging from her somber thoughts. He answered her with a faint smile, but said nothing, and their journey to Osahara was one of silence, disturbed only by the whistling of the mountain gales.

 


End file.
